Hetalia: America

Suffering Pride

Inside of a dark house was a dark man. The cold temperature of the house made his hair stand on end; his breath formed billowing clouds in front of his pale face. Dusky blonde hair covered two intense eyes. In the shadows was a young man, dressed in a tan uniform with a beaten leather jacket. His leather-gloved hands pulled the jacket tighter to him, to shield the body from the intense cold. No noise could be heard from the shadows, his breathing was too light to be heard whatsoever.

The house of shadows was stale with the years passed. Mismatched furniture was shoved to the corners in favor of a solitary folding chair in the middle of a large room, upon which the man was sitting. Despite the cold, he shed his leather jacket. It fell in a pile upon the dusty floor without a sound. With one glance the man could see an aviator's badge of honors, sewn on the jacket, facing up towards him. Even the short gaze at the badge made him sigh with languor. He dug in his pocket thoughtfully and took out a single penny, dull with age and not belonging to him (not quite anyways), and tossed it at the badge. The penny landed upon the badge, face down.

The young man, upon the rusty card chair, shed the top of his tan uniform. Unbuttoning it gently before he cast it aside next to the jacket. All that remained was a young, almost untouched, chest. The only scar was a thin line across his heart put there long ago by one so dear. Even in the shadows such a scar was visible, for one reason or another.

The icy blue eyes gazed around the room until, expectedly, they fixed on the shining object right before his feet. Removing the leather gloves, at last, he picked up the object and held it before his eyes. In this object he could see the blue in his eyes; he could see the years and the pain in those eyes. The steel of the knife was clean and lovely and shone, though shadows surrounded it.

Taking the knife in hand, the young man dragged the tip lightly across his chest, interlocking with the existing scar across his chest. In a second stroke he retraced the line with a deeper cut. Blood began to trickle from the fresh cuts. He did nothing to prevent or slow the flow of the blood. The red was as apart of him as the white of his skin and the blue of his eyes. A trifecta of identity.

Taking the knife in hand he dragged it across his stomach, curving it downward as he did so. In his mind he could picture silky black hair and the sweet smell of a cherry blossom. His stomach, clean open, exposed his regret, his forced purpose perhaps.

Once more he dragged the knife down his left arm. The veins cried out and screamed with high-pitched wails. In his mind's eye he could see smoke coming out of the veins. His right arm began to scream in pain as well. This had been inflicted upon him. Hoards of veins sprang from his arms, sensing the inevitable death. The hum of a plane was in his ears as the knife cut. finally, into the right arm.

Upon his neck, his pale neck, was a singular mole, a brown mole. With a sigh of resolution, and perhaps injustice, he took the knife and inched it under and through the mole. Though he was in pain. he did not cry out. The removal of the mole made his neck white, pure, and pale once more. Tears filled his blue eyes for he had loved that part of himself.

Hours passed in silence and the man in the chair faired no better than he did at birth. The shadows crept up upon him as the final stroke saw the knife cut in hungrily into his chest. It remained planted in the center of his chest, the steel buried deep within him. With a smile he dragged his fingers across his face, making red stripes upon a pale face. Stars twinkled in his blue eyes.

And though the knife remained in his chest, he did not die. He remained in the chair weeping and weeping. In an hour he would begin anew.